Fargo is entirely back to normal. I don't think he knows yet what he's going to miss. Then again, I'm not sure I can explain to him, so I'll just let him go on.
I realized that I'm forever leaving threads hanging here. Things I promised to tell you all about and then either never went back to finish, or else hedged on with the intent of never telling the story.
I read back through these entries, and there are some things I should probably fill in a few details on.
For starters, Elaine was happy I bought her grandmother's car. Elaine seemed pretty worried about her grandmother driving. Me, I'm worried more about Elaine than I am about anything Frieda could have done with or done to that Mercedes-Benz. Frieda is all right. Elaine is wrapped kind of tight.
I thought about it, but didn't discontinue my insurance with Prudential. It was stupid. I kind of felt bad they totaled the Honda. I like the Mercedes wagon but miss the Honda. The Mercedes makes me feel old and responsible. It's revolting.
The other night, a lot more happened with Michael than I talked about. Yes, we spent a lot of time talking here, but interspersed were several interludes of, well, not talking. I don't know, things have been so chaotic lately and I've felt alone enough that when the hem of my dress ended up somewhere around my waist, I wasn't exactly protesting. And no, we didn't have sex. I'm not sure if I would have wanted to, really, if it came to that, but it never really came to it. Fargo was way too interested in everything that was happening for anything more intimate to have happened. There's something about a cat that just sort of makes some guys nervous. Like they're being watched. That makes sense, because they are being watched. Fargo ogles me every time I come out of the shower, but for some reason, from him, I don't mind.
I found some letters in a box in my parents' attic that disturbed me when I was up there. My late aunt in Lockport apparently was institutionalized in the mid-1960s, and for years afterward she sent these really vitriolic letters to everyone in the family she perceived to be responsible, even though it seems at the time the committment was pretty well justified. She had slit her wrists on two occasions and drank lye on another. My father took it all pretty badly. They never talked about it to me, and by the time I was old enough to know my aunt much, all that seemed to have blown over. Some things never go away.
Sometimes I feel a real conflict between being the fade-to-background sort of pastel girl I was most of my life and coming out of that haze into the light of attention. I have to admit, I really do like getting dressed up and going out with people, either to parties or just out, and being allowed to get attention from people. I like having the idea that guys like to check me out if I'm wearing something a little eye-catching. I like the idea that people want to listen to what I have to say. I like the attention. Sometimes.
When I lose control of it, I don't want any of it.
I was looking in the closet today and found a dress I forgot I had. It's very Nineties. It looks like a jacket and skirt and is actually a dress in block colors. Bright Xerox-blue jacket portion over a pleated black skirt portion. I used to like it because it looked like something it wasn't. Now I don't like it, because it looks like something it isn't.